


our bodies (possessed by light)

by phcbosz



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz
Summary: "I knew my death was coming, I was ready for it too," Andrés says, arms crossed over his chest, shivering violently. "But I never thought it would be like this."ormartin and andres have to huddle for warmth and things end up happening
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 7
Kudos: 103





	our bodies (possessed by light)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aizenmi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aizenmi/gifts).



> omg i did it... finally a fic with no trigger warnings ! wow !!
> 
> i wrote and edited this while super sleep deprived and i can barely speak english on a good day so sorry for any mistakes
> 
> ofc , this is inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/berlermowishes/status/1292433149281161218?s=19), ty aizenmi for inspriing me 😼

"I knew my death was coming, I was ready for it too," Andrés says, arms crossed over his chest, shivering violently. "But I never thought it would be like this."

"Stop being so dramatic," Martín says, feet crunching snow with every step, and he can feel his toes burning from the cold, fingers going numb as well. "We won't die."

"Oh, but to die like _this,_ " Andrés keeps going, "what a pity, what a shame--"

"Andrés, shut the fuck up," Martín interrupts. Normally he can handle Andrés. Not when he is so cold that his balls are about to fall off, though.

When Martín first met Andrés, he was awestruck by everything the man said. When Andrés started waxing his poetic bullshit, Martín would listen with his mouth wide open, and probably with stars in his eyes.

10 years later, he just tells Andrés to shut the fuck up.

"Why didn't we just stay in the car?" Andrés whines for the fifth time. His nose and ears are red, his chin buried towards his chest, his shoulders raised, arms hugging himself for any crumb of warmth he can get.

Martín is freezing, but inside his chest, there is a fire, burning ever so gently, a fire only Andrés can put out, a fire only Andrés can fuel.

Martín forces himself to look away. Looking at Andrés is like looking directly at the sun sometimes, (always), without any protection. It burns, it hurts, and Martín can never do it for more than a few seconds before he has to flinch away. Turn his gaze somewhere else.

He desires so much that it hurts sometimes. Aches, deep inside his chest.

Inside his mind, there is another blizzard just like the one that caught them defenseless. Out loud, he just says: "Don't be such a pussy."

"It at least stopped the wind," Andrés complains, mostly to himself. Martín rolls his eyes all the same.

"We are looking for shelter, because you might have no idea how cold that car is going to be during the night, but I do," he says, each exhale leaving his mouth with a small cloud, like cigarette smoke. God, how much he craves a cigarette right that second.

"That's why I have you," Andrés says, and Martín almost stumbles at the change in Andrés' voice, his tone. The man speaks softly, almost, quiet as if he is trying not to disturb the trees, the nature that surrounds them. " _My engineer._ "

Martín hates blushing. He does. But he is so cold that the warmth that travels to his face is very welcome.

He clears his throat, doesn't reply. He can't anyway. He never knows what to say when Andrés tells him shit like that.

He can tell Andrés is about to speak again, maybe complain, maybe whine, maybe dramatically talk about his death, but Martín interrupts him before he can even begin.

"Aha!" He says, jumping on the spot, his finger pointing at a blur not too far away.

He is so relieved he can cry.

"Holy shit," even Andrés says in surprise - _Andrés!_ \- because right in the direction Martín is pointing, hidden behind trees, fog, and the snow falling down mercilessly, is a little cabin.

"Come on, walk faster," Martín says, grabbing Andrés' hand without even noticing it. He all but drags the man towards the house, ignoring him saying his feet hurt.

(They haven't even walked that far, Martín scared the snow would cover their footprints too fast, and they would never find their way back to the car again.)

The cabin looks abandoned.

Martín feels his shoulders sag with disappointment, exhaling a sigh.

His dreams of asking for help, charming some old lonely lady and standing by her warm, _warm_ fireplace, drinking her delicious soup is gone now.

"I mean, this makes sense," Andrés says, "why anyone would live here is beyond me."

"Let me think," Martín says, and feels Andrés shift from one foot to another. He only then realizes he is still holding Andrés' hand in his own.

He drops it immediately like he was burned, and maybe he was, his formerly freezing fingers now hot, warm like his face, his heart beneath his chest.

Andrés doesn't say anything about it. They are both used to ignoring stuff like that at this point.

Denial is not just a river in Egypt after all.

"What now?" Andrés asks, and Martín bites down on his bottom lip.

"I don't think whoever lives here will mind us staying for a night," he says with a shrug in the end.

Andrés shivers violently, curling in on himself even more. “Make it quick, I’m about to become an icicle.”

Martín rolls his eyes, and starts picking the lock. "You're such a woman, Andrés," he says, as he works the door open easily.

Andrés just scoffs. "You're not the man in this relationship, Martín," the man replies pushing past Martín and into the small cabin, "you're just a puppy too eager to please and I'm always ready to let you."

Martín knows he wants to feel warm again, but not like this, he thinks, as anger blooms inside him like a flower on fire, fast growing.

"Fuck you," he says, maybe too bitterly, and Andrés just chuckles in response.

Inside the cabin, it's not any warmer, but at least the wind is gone, shaking the house and the windows, but unable to get to them.

The cabin has only one bedroom, with a king size bed. Martín eyes the blankets on the bed hungrily.

"There's a fireplace in the living room," Andrés observes oh so intelligently, "we should stay there."

"Do you have wood to burn hidden somewhere up your ass, Andrés?" Martín asks, rolling his eyes.

"No, I just assumed you would go gather some for me," the man replies with a smirk, and Martín almost snarls like a feral dog.

He opts for dropping his bag to the ground, and taking the bottle of wine out of it.

"You brought the wine?" Andrés asks, shocked.

Martín scoffs. "Of course I did."

They grab the blanket from the bed, and every other object that could give them any bit of warmth, and then sit in the living room, on the ground because the couch was too dusty and Andrés is a princess.

Andrés also purses his lips at the idea of drinking from the same wine bottle, like teenagers, but it doesn't take much to convince him.

The wine helps a little bit to warm them up.

But as the hours pass, the temperature drops, drops, and keeps dropping. By the time the bottle is empty and the world is dark outside the window, Martín is shivering so much it feels like he is vibrating.

"Can you--can you imagine if that fireplace was," he speak through the chattering of his teeth. He is just _so_ impossibly cold. "Was burning right now?"

Andrés groans beside him, throwing his head back before immediately dropping it back to his chest because he doesn't want to expose his neck to the cold air around them.

"I don't think we will make it to the bedroom before freezing to death," Andrés says, voice steady. He has always been more composed than Martín, always. "If we step a toe out of these blankets we will have to tell the limb goodbye."

Martín chuckles, or maybe even giggles, he doesn't know, things are just a little bit wine hazy.

"I don't feel my toes or fingertips anyway," he says, like it's funny.

He feels Andrés moving beneath the blankets, they are sitting very close, the sides of their bodies pressed together to get any trace of warmth they can.

Andrés finds Martín's hand, and takes it in his own.

"Dios Mio," Andrés mumbles, and Martín hisses from just how warm Andrés' fingers are. "Can you move them?"

"It hurts, but yes."

Andrés turns to look at him, then.

Because of the way they are sitting, their faces are impossible close, Andrés' breath hitting Martín's face, hot and burning.

"Your lips are getting pale, cariño," Andrés mutters, grip getting tighter, holding Martín's hand.

It says a lot about Martín, how the first word he focuses on is cariño. Cariño. Andrés just called him cariño--

Then, the rest of the sentence hits him. "Shit," he says, forces a chuckle. "Maybe we _will_ die here after all."

Andrés' eyes harden with something Martín can't describe, and the man clenches his jaw impossibly tight.

"Take off your clothes," Andrés says, so simply that Martín thinks he might have misheard.

"Huh?" Martín asks, mind numb all of a sudden.

"I said take off your clothes," Andrés repeats.

Martín laughs, sudden, and stops laughing, sudden, when he realizes Andrés isn't joking.

"Andrés, surely, that won't help--"

"I thought you knew about biology," Andrés snarks, "you know it's our best chance at survival."

Martín tries to find another excuse, any excuse, really. "No way I'm getting out of this blanket and undressing--"

And then Andrés is throwing the blanket off of them. Of course.

They both shiver at the same time.

"Andrés, concha de tu madre--" Martín curses, but Andrés doesn't even seem to hear him, getting to his feet, and grabbing Martín by the hand he was still gripping and pulling him up too.

Martín almost stumbles into the man before he catches himself.

"Come on," Andrés says, hands on his belt.

Martín has only one thought, his brain stuck on one thing only: Andrés' hands on his belt. The man has such pretty hands, yes, a thief's, but also an artist's as well; the way his fingers move, so expertly, it makes Martín's mouth water--

"Martín," Andrés snaps him out of it, and Martín realizes he has been staring at Andrés' crotch, two seconds away from panting like a dog in heat. He snaps his head up, face burning, and thanks every god in existence that Andrés hasn't noticed. "Come on, I said. I'm not letting us die here because you were too stubborn."

Martín almost closes his eyes when Andrés starts lowering his pants down his legs.

He opts for reaching for his own belt, making sure to look down at himself and only at himself, doesn't even risk a glance at Andrés.

It takes him a hot second to unbutton his shirt with how numb and shaky his fingers are, but he manages in the end, before Andrés can propose helping Martín out or something.

Then, for just a millisecond, it's them standing there in the middle of the room, shivering like mad men, only in their socks and boxers.

It passes quick, Andrés jumping into action.

He basically manhandles Martín down on the ground again, on top of the blankets they stole from the bed, and pulls the other blankets they had abandoned just a second ago over themselves.

Martín doesn't even have the brains to panic because of how cold he is, but as the warmth of the blankets settle over him, he realizes just what kind of position they are in.

They are laying together, side by side, incredibly close, and his skin wherever its touching Andrés burns, and he wants, so much, he just _wants_ \--

God, Andrés really is so warm.

"This won't work," Andrés says, and Martín almost breathes a sigh of relief.

"Yes," he replies, _let's just put our clothes on and forget about this,_ he thinks.

That's not what happens.

Andrés turns to his side, and latches himself to Martín in one breath, tangling their legs together, his arms pulling Martín towards his chest and--

Well. Martín blames the wine for his poor survival instincts, because he goes along with it.

Then, there they lay, tangled together, chest to chest, Andrés so warm against him, so solid under his fingertips, the man's arms around him, everywhere, and their faces are so close that when Martín exhales a nervous breath, it fans Andrés' face.

Andrés' eyes are a kind of brown that Martín has never been able to describe. It's a shade of brown that changes under different light, sometimes dark like the coffee Andrés makes for them in the mornings, sometimes almost yellow, like molten gold.

With the moonlight being the only source of light in the whole room, and their faces so close like that, Martín looks into Andrés' eyes, and sees a shade of brown he has never seen before.

He tries to commit it to memory, he never wants to forget the most beautiful shade of brown he has ever seen, so what if he stares?

Andrés doesn't seem to mind, staring back.

The air around them has changed now, the room feeling hot, stiff, and Martín is still shivering from the cold, but maybe not just from the cold anymore.

Then, it's Andrés blinking, it's Andrés looking away, and the moment snaps to an end like elastic, and Martín can feel the room shift again, like the way the shade of Andrés' eyes change under different shadows, different lighting.

Martín closes his mouth, not remembering when he opened it in the first place.

Andrés is looking past Martín's shoulder, to a spot far away in the room, swallowed in darkness.

Martín forces himself to swallow, take a deep breath. His teeth have slowed their chattering, at least.

Somewhere along the way, Martín moves closer, buries his head in Andrés' neck, and Andrés stiffens, but not in a bad way, no, his arms tightening around Martín, trying to pull him even closer like it's possible, like they could be any more closer than they already are, body, soul, minds intertwined.

Martín feels his eyes fall shut, and when he takes a deep breath, all he smells is Andrés, only Andrés, and nothing else.

It's intoxicating, and Martín is already addicted.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to stop trembling, his shivers getting rarer, only a random one every few minutes; but it's a long enough time that he believes Andrés asleep.

The man hasn't moved at all, after all, and his breathing is steady.

Now that Martín's mind isn't so clouded anymore, now that his brain can form more thoughts than _cold, Andrés, warm, Andrés,_ he realizes the position they are in, feels warmth rush to his face once again.

Friends don't do this, do they? Friends don't cuddle with their _bros_ almost naked and clinging together like a koala clinging to a tree.

The fire inside his chest is still burning, always burning, gentle, but a fire all the same.

He tries to pull away.

But Andrés' arms only tighten around him, not allowing him any room to escape, and Martín lifts his head from Andrés' neck, their faces close once again, even closer than before.

Sometimes, looking at someone from such a short distance can be a curse.

Looking at Andrés, Martín maps the man's face in his brain, the laughter lines beside his eyes, the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks, his eyes, dark, deep pools that Martín wants to drown in--and the problem is Martín knows he will never forget this again.

He will never forget looking at Andrés this close, this way, this intimately, and of course, that will haunt him, when he lays awake at night in his bed, in his room that's next to Andrés', disgusted by just how much he _desires,_ how passionately--

"Andrés," he says, or whispers, or maybe just thinks. They are so close that Martín believes they don't even need words, anymore, they never will again.

Andrés moves his free arm that's not trapped beneath Martín, and as he brings his hand up, ever so slowly, Martín feels like he is on a rollercoaster, waiting for the drop.

Andrés' touch is gentle, feather light, when his hand settles on Martín's cheek.

Martín doesn't dare to breathe, can't breathe anyway.

He feels like they are trapped in time and space, he feels like nothing exists besides them in the whole world, nothing else exists besides the small distance between their lips.

Andrés moves his thumb, slow, calculated, and Martín leans into the touch, pure instinct, eyelashes fluttering.

He watches as Andrés shivers this time instead of Martín, and he knows it's not from the cold, not at all.

The problem with being this close to someone, (this close to Andrés, because Andrés could never just be someone to Martín), is that Martín is a greedy creature by nature.

With each inch Andrés allows him, instead of being thankful, Martín craves another mile.

His gaze falls to Andrés' lips, and they take a breath at the same time, like their bodies have synchronized together.

Martín moves forward, and Andrés does too, their lips meeting in the middle, and Martín almost laughs.

He can't believe how foolish he has been, all these years. Trying to stay away from this, trying to stall the inevitable--

Because, see, now he understands.

Andrés and Martín, they are like magnets, and Martín has been keeping them inches apart, trying to stop them from snapping together with a clank, trying to do the impossible, really--

_Now_ he understands.

As Andrés' lips move against his own, Martín finds his religion, and the small noise Andrés makes, not quite a moan, not quite a groan, it's their prayer.

Martín buries his hand into Andrés' perfect, stupid hair, with the intention of ruining it, and _God_ he thinks to himself, or maybe, _Andrés_ , he thinks to himself--they are pretty much the same thing at this point.

The thing is, Martín has wanted this for so long that it was like a deep, constant ache in his chest; a buzzing in his mind that never let him have peace, and as Andrés slips a tongue in his mouth, Martín finally experiences true silence again, after ten years.

Well, not exactly true silence. The noises they are making are quite loud inside the quiet cabin.

When Andrés starts to pull away from the kiss, Martín chases the man's lips desperately, wanting to kiss Andrés forever even if it means suffocating to death.

Andrés just chuckles, and Martín opens his eyes reluctantly, to find Andrés already looking at him.

Andrés looks at him in a way Martín can't explain, in a way he has never been looked at before.

"I've wanted to do that for two years now," Andrés says, voice just a whisper, but for Martín it's louder than the wind still howling outside, hitting against the windows, shaking the trees.

"Only two years?" He asks with a smile, "I've wanted to do that for _a decade_."

Andrés' eyes are quite soft, and Martín doesn't know how eyes can be soft, really, but they just are.

Andrés smiles at him, closes the distance between their mouths once again, giving Martín a small peck but pulling away before Martín can deepen the kiss, like he can't quite stay away, but he doesn't want to give in either.

Martín tries not to pout as Andrés presses his forehead against his.

"We need to sleep," the man says, "we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

And Martín almost feels cold again. "Right," he says.

He is thinking about what will happen once they leave the safety of the blankets they've laid on the floor, the inside of the cabin where Martín has found his own personal paradise, hell, purgatory--

Andrés speaks right then, like he can read Martín's mind, and at this point, Martín wouldn't be surprised at that, is almost convinced that's actually the case.

"I want to get you home," Andrés says, and _home_ Martín thinks. Their home, Andrés and Martín's. "And I want you to tell me just what else you've been thinking about doing to me for a decade now."

Martín shivers from head to toe, feeling warm, and not cold at all.

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> fine me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/transpalermo) and sorry for the bunch of mistakes i probably made ny eyes hurt 😭


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